Deep Black

“Billy, put together a plan,” said the president.

Rubens let himself bask in the rarefied air of presidential approval for a few seconds, then turned his mind toward a plan that would justify it.

27

The weapon was simplicity itself. A stainless steel barrel, an aluminum frame, a plastic stock. The bolt eased bullets into firing position, treating them like the perfectly selected hand-prepared rounds they were. The sight itself was not particularly powerful at 6X42, but it was more than adequate and perfectly matched to the weapon. With the proper preparation, the assassin could guarantee a hit at 600 meters. Even at that range, the 7.62mm bullet would slice through a man’s skull as easily as if it were an overripe cantaloupe.

Once, the assassin’s commander had objected to the fact that he preferred the British gun — an L96A1, procured at a ridiculous cost that included two lives — to the more readily available and homegrown Snaiperskaya Vintivka Dragunov. The SVD was not, in fact, a poor weapon and, depending on the circumstances, might surpass the L96A1. If the assassin still did his work in the field, for example, he would perhaps have preferred the SVD for its reliability.

But he did not do his work in the field. He was stationed now in the second story of a hotel in Doneck on the Black Sea, waiting for his target’s limousine to appear on the street. He had waited here in fact for two days. Another man might think, after so long a wait, that the information that had been provided to him was incorrect. Another man might have sought other instructions.

But the assassin did neither. This was, in large part, his great value. He did not need to sleep — a bottle of blue pills, one every six hours, took care of that. He kept a large chamber pot and never drank or ate while waiting. He had been at his post for eighteen hours straight and could stay for at least another twelve, if not eighteen or twenty-four. He had waited three entire days to kill a leader of the Chechnya criminals, so this was nothing.

The assassin had killed twenty-three people, not counting the men he had slain as a paratrooper. Besides the L96A1 zeroed in on the entrance to the hotel across the street, the assassin had a submachine gun at his feet. This was not intended for his target — the L96A1 was more than adequate. But the assassin did not trust his employers — for good reason, he knew — and in fact much of his preparation had involved finding an acceptable escape route.

The phone on his belt began to vibrate. Still watching the window, he reached down and pressed the talk button.

“Yes?” he said.

“It is postponed,” said the voice on the other end. “Go to Moscow. Be there the day after tomorrow.”

Without saying another word, the assassin punched the end button and began to take down his weapon.

28

When they returned to the highway, Lia and Dean went back in the direction they’d come for about ten miles, finding another highway running to the southeast. Just after turning off they stopped and refilled the truck’s gas tank, hand-pumping it. They had passed at least two gas stations, but Lia told him the gas sometimes couldn’t be trusted.

“Everybody’s out to make a ruble,” she said. “Country’s going to hell.”

With the girl out of the truck, Lia told him where they were going. All three locations they had to check were near the Kazym River, the first about a half hour’s drive. Dean looked at the map on the handheld. They were more than two hundred miles north of where they had left the Hind and well to the east; they’d followed a rather twisted route to get here.

“How do you know the helicopter’s still there?” he asked.

“May not be,” said Lia. “We’ll just scout around, see what we see. Kind of your job description, isn’t it?”

“It wouldn’t have been able to get to any of these spots without refueling,” he told her. “And if it refueled, it could have gone anywhere.”

“The Art Room coordinates all kinds of data, Charlie. Eavesdropping, signal captures, satellite pictures. Just relax.”

“Garbage in, garbage out.”

“Gee, that’s original.”

“Well, your gadgets and gizmos haven’t done too well so far.”

“Sure they have.”

Dean scoffed. “Why don’t we look for the MiG?”

“That’s not our job.”

“Somebody should.”

“Did you do this in the Marines?”

“Which?”

“Question every stinking thing.”

“All the time.”

“Good.”

Surprised by her answer, Dean pulled himself upright in the seat.

“The girl will be OK,” said Lia, as if they’d been discussing her. “Really, she’ll be OK.”

“You told her to go become a prostitute.”

“I did not.” Her face lit red. Then, in a much lower voice, a voice close to a whisper, she repeated herself. “I did not. She’ll be OK.”

As Lia shook her head, Dean noticed two very small creases near her eyes, aging marks she wasn’t old enough to have.

“It’s not my job to save people, not like that,” said Lia. “It’s not why I’m here.”

“I think it is.”

“You know, Charlie Dean, that’s the same attitude that got a lot of people killed in Vietnam,” said Lia.

“What do you know about Vietnam?” he snapped.

“My dad was there, my adopted dad,” said Lia. “He told me what it was like.”

The last thing Dean wanted to hear was warmed-over Vietnam stories. They were all well-constructed set pieces of horror. People trotted them out to show that they had been touched, moved by war. They still had nightmares. They still thought about it.

Except that most of the people who spit out the stories were full of shit.

He liked her better when she was being an asshole, he decided.

* * *

The first spot they were supposed to check out was an oil machinery plant, which dealt with companies like Petro-UK. It lay right off the highway. Lia saw the rusting fence and the sign with its Cyrillic letters as she passed, hit the brakes, and wheeled through a one-eighty, narrowly missing the only other vehicle they’d seen for the last fifteen minutes or so.

“Jesus,” said Dean as the large tractor-trailer whipped about an inch from their bumper.

“They’re not used to other drivers on the road here,” said Lia. She glanced at her watch. It was before seven, but already there were people in the building. “Here’s the deal. We’re looking for a helicopter. You’re the new accountant from Australia. I’ll do most of the talking.”

“I can’t do an Australian accent,” said Dean.

“I doubt they can, either.”

Lia parked the car in a muddy lot, then hopped from the truck. They locked it; Dean adjusted his pistol under his sweater and followed her inside.